Unforgiven
by shhjustcome
Summary: Dean is not ready to forgive Castiel. Warnings/kinks: Reference to suicide, self-harm, rape, masturbation, angst, PWP, just generally badly written drabble. Massive spoilers for the season 6 finale.


A/n: Fucking hell, I have no idea where this came from. Angsty drabble written during a boring train journey is very angsty. And I'm not kidding about the triggers. Set directly after Sam, Dean and Bobby mysteriously escape from Godstiel.

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><p><em>What I've felt, what I've known<em>_  
><em>_Turn the pages, turn to stone__  
><em>_Behind the door, should I open it for you?_

_Yeah__  
><em>_What I've felt, what I've known__  
><em>_Sick and tired, I stand alone__  
><em>_Could you be there, 'cause I'm the one who waits for you__  
><em>_Or are you unforgiven too?_

_Metallica ~ The Unforgiven II_

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><p>With a scream, Dean shocked himself awake. It took him a few heartbeats to realise where he was, until the familiar images of Bobby's half-dark living room started to make sense to his sleep drunk brain. He sat up on the couch, blindly feeling for his phone. The display told him it was a quarter past three in the morning. He hoped he hadn't woken anyone with his shout. Sam was lying upstairs in Bobby's master bedroom. They'd needed to drug him with enough tranquilizers to floor a horse. Dean had no idea where Bobby was sleeping, but he'd taken a bottle of Scotch with him, so he supposed that he was fast asleep too. After the events of the past few days, they all needed their rest. Dean stretched out on the couch again, screwing his eyes shut. He tried desperately to go back to sleep, but every time he was almost gone, the images began flooding back. Cas' horrible transformation haunted his mind's eye. And then there was Sammy. The way he'd looked, completely devastated, the year of torture in hell showing in everything he did, from the way he held his body to the look in his eyes, like the pain was radiating from his very pores. Dean found himself thinking about Castiel, no matter how much that hurt and scared him, just so he wouldn't have to think about Sam.<p>

The images of Castiel last night mixed with the Castiel from his dream, the one he'd awaken from screaming. In his dream, Castiel had morphed with Azazel, his eyes turning bright yellow while he repeated his words again and again, and fire had erupted around them: "I am your new God... I have no family." He'd turned around to grab Sam and run, but Sam had been just a baby, and the flames were already licking his face. And he'd heard Castiel laugh behind him, maniacally. But being awake didn't help, for the experiences of the day before remained burned on his retinas, and the visions of his dream kept repeating in his head. Whatever he was going to do, there was no way he was going to be able to sleep again anytime soon.

With a groan, he got up from the couch and stumbled to the kitchen. Without bothering to turn on the lights, he grabbed a glass of water, and when he'd drunk it all in one go, he found an unfinished bottle of whiskey on the kitchen table and he took it. Circling the amber liquid in his mouth, enjoying the burning sensation in his throat as he swallowed, he stood in the middle of the room for a few minutes, unsure what to do next. Eventually he headed towards the bathroom, still clutching the bottle. He turned on the lights, but turned them off immediately when he saw his face in the mirror. There were no windows in the bathroom, and the darkness was complete. Dean found the blackness strangely and perversely calming. At least, like this, he wouldn't also have to deal with physical reality. After a little searching, and bumping his knee against the edge of the bath twice, he managed to turn on the taps and he leaned back against the sink, sipping whiskey while the bath slowly filled with water. He couldn't see, but when it sounded like the bath was almost full he shrugged off his shirt and boxers and got in, carefully placing the bottle of whiskey on the corner of the bath, within arm's reach. He closed his eyes and submersed himself completely in the water, which was nearly too hot to bear, wondering how long he'd have to stay under before he passed out. Dean knew it was nearly impossible to simply drown yourself in a bathtub, for once you passed out you'd float up and start breathing again, but his mind briefly contemplated the bottle on the edge of the bath, the painkillers he knew Bobby kept in the medicine cabinet over the sink. Enough chemicals and alcohol in his blood would suppress his reflexes... Exhaling, he sat up, shivering from the cold air on his face, despite the temperature of the water. It was a ridiculous thought. If he was going to die, it was not going to be in a bathtub. And it was definitely not going to be self-inflicted. He couldn't possibly do that, not now, not when Sam needed him more than ever.

Dean soaked in the warm water for God knows how long, keeping his eyes firmly closed all the time, occasionally sipping whiskey and all the while trying hard, but failing, to keep his mind blank. When the water had nearly completely cooled, he slowly got up. But he'd momentarily forgotten the bottle on the edge, and as he stood, swaying gently, he accidentally knocked it over, starting at the sound of the glass breaking, feeling drops of whiskey and shards of glass shooting up and against his legs.

"Fuck," he swore loudly. His voice sounded weird in the small, dark space. But it was strangely satisfying. He swore again. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK." He shouted louder and louder until he was screaming at the top of his voice. "_FUCK_!" He screamed, ramming his fist into the wall. The pain felt good, and he did it again, with both hands. While his knuckles continuously made contact with cold tiles, he finally managed to keep his mind blank as he concentrated on the pain. Skin broke, and he could feel the blood on his hands, and he concentrated on the blood. He tasted tears on his lips, and he felt bruises forming on his knuckles. Eventually he had calmed down a little and he had the presence of mind to pull the plug out of the bath and turn on the shower. He leaned his forehead against the wall and sighed, letting his tears run freely. It was like all the pain and uncertainty and confusion of the past few months were violently pushing themselves to the fore. He became vaguely aware of his erection. Uncertain, he bit his lip and then reached down, his thumb running over his swollen head. His eyes closed tightly, he began to stroke himself off.

No longer unable to contain his memories, he let his mind wander. He tried to think of Castiel, as he had been a long time ago. He tried to remember how he'd looked like a lost child, how he'd been the very first time they met, but the Cas of now kept coming back, bigger and scarier than anything he'd ever known. He clenched his teeth, and imagined Castiel, lying flat on his stomach, Dean leaning over him. Groaning, he imagined hurting Cas, tying his hands with that fucking blue tie of his. He imagined him taking of his belt, wrapping it around his fist and using the buckle as a make-shift knuckleduster, hitting the angel's back until bruises formed. Then he threw it away, and tore off Castiel's pants in one motion. He imagined how Castiel struggled to loosen his restraints, moaning in pain, and he felt satisfaction wash over him. He was stroking himself so vigorously his wrist started to hurt but he didn't stop or slowed down. In fact, he practically welcomed the pain as he imagined himself entering Castiel without preparation. He almost felt the angel squirming beneath him, contracting around him, reflexes trying to force him out, but he held him tight with one hand while he fucked him, fast and deep. But not too deep, he was going to make damn sure that Castiel wasn't going to get any pleasure out of it, only pain. It was all he deserved. One day, maybe, there would be time for forgiveness but today was not that day.

Gradually, Dean felt his balls tighten, lights beginning to erupt around the edges of his vision. He bit back a groan and willed himself not to come, yet. He was not done with Cas yet. He pictured himself digging his nails into the angel's naked back, adding to the bruises from the belt. Castiel was now lying still, probably trying to move as little as possible, but from the line of his jaw, Dean imagined, he could see that Castiel was straining not to scream.

"Castiel, I hope you're fucking getting this," he whispered against the bathroom wall, the water from the shower mixing with his tears. "You better fucking get this, you bastard. It's everything you deserve." His voice broke. In his head, Castiel turned around and looked at him, his eyes wide and blue. It startled Dean, and he paused, almost unable to move. Cas' mouth moved, barely visible, forming Dean's name. Dean grabbed his arm tightly. Castiel shuddered. He tried to say something else, but Dean covered his mouth with his hand, his thumb briefly stroking his jaw.

"I don't want to hear anything from you," he said. He could feel Cas' breathing against his hand, and his eyes were still fixed on Dean's face. A little hesitatingly at first, he started jerking off again. Realising he was unable to hold back his orgasm any longer, he quickened his pace. When he came, he let the convulsions wash over him, allowing himself to let go and drown in Castiel's eyes. Empty, utterly and completely empty, he slumped against the tiles.

Finally, he turned off the shower and shakily got out, ignoring the glass cutting his feet. Blindly grabbing a towel and his clothes, he left the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

Tears, blood and come blended with the water swirling down the drain.


End file.
